Gifts from God
by mew-tsubaki
Summary: Oneshot. Three—soon to be four—certain people come to learn of Nathaniel Hawthorne. But it's the fourth who matters. .::pre-Hawmitch::.


**Gifts from God**

A Bungou Stray Dogs oneshot

by mew-tsubaki

Note: The _Bungou Stray Dogs_ characters belong to Asagiri Kafuka-sensei, not to me. Pre-Hawmitch, through Mitchell's eyes. ;] Read, review, and enjoy!

\- ^-^3

She overheard them talking, and, as all good ladies ought to do, she stopped by the door to Fitzgerald's study and eavesdropped.

"I want to add his power to our repertoire," Fitzgerald insisted. A chair creaked, and Mitchell could picture him kicking back, looking, as usual, like the king of the world as he talked so nonchalantly about collecting ability users.

Next she heard Melville huff. "Yes, but things work out better when they join us willingly. Otherwise they're better off living their normal lives and being monitored, perhaps."

There was the sound of pen on paper—ah, Alcott was with them, too, Mitchell surmised. "Do we know the extent of his ability? Depending, he could be a tactical asset," she spoke in her soft voice.

Fitzgerald snorted. "No clue. Melville and I met with him outside his parish, but he was a curious guy. Just sitting outside, reading his book. Looking, for all intents and purposes, as though he had no ability whatsoever." There was a brief pause. "But. I want. His ability. For the Guild."

Silence again. Though Mitchell had only been a part of the Guild for about a month or so, she could picture the reprimanding expression on poor old Melville's lined face. And, though she'd not had much interaction yet with Alcott because the squirrely woman preferred the company of her notebooks to the company of people, Mitchell figured Alcott was nervously avoiding commenting on their boss's almost childish demand.

Fitzgerald cleared his throat. "So. As that's the case and we need him—Miss Mitchell, please join us," he called, raising his voice.

Startled, Mitchell leaned too close to the door, and it creaked open. She stood up straight before she could be accused of being caught completely red-handed, and she smiled brightly, hoping to come off as innocent. "Hello," she greeted as she smoothed her pink skirt, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief when Fitzgerald didn't call her out on the eavesdropping.

"You have excellent timing," he quipped with that charming smile of his that had been part of her reason for joining his Guild. That, and the promise to keep her family in the lifestyle to which they were accustomed. "We've spotted another ability user we would like to join us in our work, and I think your charms will come in handy when convincing him."

Her heart sank a little. That…could mean anything. And she didn't like that. The Mitchells were a well-off family that had had its ups and downs, mostly due to her father's poor investment decisions as of late. There had been so much talk as to what they'd do to get through rough patches, to keep from drowning in their debt, and suddenly she'd had several female cousins "married"—in her opinion, sold off, really. And, though she'd thought darkly of her signing up with the Guild as kind of selling herself, she hadn't thought it might mean something other than using her ability. Had she read Fitzgerald wrong?

Alcott furrowed her brow and spoke up, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Miss Mitchell, you're a natural people person. If this goes well, then your talk with Mr. Hawthorne could lead to the development of a new system within the Guild. It would be a great help."

"Oh." Talking. That was all? It must've read on her face, because Alcott followed that up with a reassuring but tiny smile.

Fitzgerald drew the attention back to him as he stood up from his desk. "As Melville points out, I have my own way of doing things, but I really would like to have Hawthorne join us. And, if this goes according to plan, I would like to institute partners within our little group."

Mitchell couldn't help but frown. Partners. She hoped this Hawthorne was an intriguing man. She couldn't imagine working alongside Alcott, who rarely went out, or Melville, who did God knew what, or Fitzgerald, who liked to keep busy from his throne. And she hated the idea of being paired with the impish Twain, who, despite being older than her, went along to the beat of his own drum and seemed a loner. His ability being tied to the use of firearms repulsed her, too.

Though…Mitchell briefly mused about just how big the Guild was. Perhaps there were far more options than she realized? Or maybe there were more than just Hawthorne under surveillance.

"So, what do you say? Are you up for the flight?" Fitzgerald asked, bringing her back to the matter at hand.

A flight? How thrilling! Though she'd flown here to California merely a month ago, she jumped on the chance to embrace this luxury again so soon. "When do I leave?"

\- ^-^3

It turned out Fitzgerald had a car waiting for her downstairs. He instructed her to pack lightly—leave the larger, unnecessary items behind—and depart for his private hangar that afternoon. She'd be given a day to bring back Hawthorne once she landed.

Mitchell fussed about what to bring with her, but it was easier once Alcott suggested a change of outfit. "Boston's a bit more upbeat, faster-paced than here," she said in the doorway to the latter's room in Fitzgerald's mansion. "You'll want to be able to move more easily."

With that in mind, she changed into a lighter summer dress and grabbed some scarves for her hair since the hats probably didn't fit Alcott's suggestion. With a small overnight bag and the cream-colored parasol she refused to leave behind hanging off her arm, she followed Alcott downstairs to the vestibule.

"Oh, Miss Mitchell, one more thing."

"Yes?" she prompted, turning back as she left for the car.

Alcott passed her a small, black, leather case. "Your back-up plan." She said it with such a forlorn, resigned expression.

"Why would I need a back-up plan?" And why would it evoke such a grim expression on poor Alcott's face?

The bespectacled woman loosed a tiny sigh and shook her head. "Mr. Fitzgerald likes me to think—er, likes to think of everything. And, if talking won't work on Mr. Hawthorne…"

Ah. A spot of perhaps the true Alcott? Mitchell hadn't seen her so frazzled before, and it warmed her. Perhaps the Guild could be more than a way out of debt, more than a job. Perhaps she could find friends—family, even—here in California. She grinned. "Thank you, Louisa. I take it I'll be able to figure out how to use whatever's inside?"

Alcott sighed and meekly nodded. "Yes…!" she squeaked. "Oh, good luck, Miss Mitch—oh!" she squeaked again when Mitchell pulled her into a quick, sisterly hug. "Margaret," she finished.

"I'll be back before you know it," Mitchell promised, and she hurried to the car without further delay.

The drive was short, about fifteen minutes from the Guild headquarters. On the ride over, Mitchell couldn't squash her curiosity and opened the case Alcott had given her. It looked like a makeup set. But, upon closer inspection, Mitchell learned that the mascara was actually a syringe, the lipstick had a hollowed-out end that contained a small handful of pills, and the blush compact had a cloth folded up inside.

As there was no note, the driver caught her up. "Mr. Fitzgerald wants Hawthorne brought back, no matter what, and these can be mistaken for innocuous objects. Though you'll land at his private hangar near the wharfs, so you won't need to worry about security finding that."

"And what's the nail polish do?" Mitchell asked.

The driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "Nothing. It's just polish. He noticed you seem to wear it every now and then, and he decided to gift you a new color."

Well, _that_ was flattering. And the color was a pinkish hue, a pink version of the cream of the parasol she'd taken with her for this trip. Huh. He noticed so much… She'd have to remember that for future reference.

Aboard the private plane, Mitchell didn't interact with the pilot, but the lone stewardess provided refreshments and gave additional details about the makeup case and how to use each item in the event that Hawthorne resisted joining the Guild. Once satisfied Mitchell could handle herself, the stewardess suggested she paint her nails and then get some sleep, as the flight would last for several hours.

Mitchell agreed that wasn't a bad idea. She painted her nails, stuck them in some ice water to help them dry faster, and eventually nodded off, dreaming of the possibility of a bonus for this solo mission, especially in the event that it went as planned….

\- ^-^3

" _Ugh_ ," she groaned after setting foot on pavement.

"Miss Mitchell, do you need another moment?" the stewardess asked behind her. The other woman still stood on the steps leading from the plane.

"No… No, I'll be fine." HA. Not.

What had she been thinking? What had _Fitzgerald_ been thinking?! That trip had taken around seven hours—somehow, nonstop. It had been nothing like the sweet little flight from Georgia when the Guild had discovered her. She checked the dainty charm bracelet watch she wore. Well, at least the night was not completely gone.

"Oh, and I wanted to remind you of the time difference, Miss Mitchell. It's about to be eleven o'clock."

Of course it was. Mitchell sighed and tucked her hair up into her scarf to keep it out of her eyes anyway, because the city's lights outside the hangar were just as distracting if not stronger than daytime sunlight. "And Mr. Fitzgerald knows I have to sleep, right? He can't expect me to go meet with someone at this ungodly hour."

"There's a house he owns nearby, where you'll stay. There's a driver outside waiting for you, with further instructions. Have a good night, Miss Mitchell."

Mitchell frowned but nodded her thanks anyway and located her next chauffeur. He was less gentlemanly than the one from this afternoon, but that might've been the result of Mitchell dramatically gagging on the odd smells of this part of the city. Metallic and salty and fishy—Boston was much more congested than the Californian cities she'd seen and the Georgian ones she'd visited as a young girl.

For the first time since she'd met F. Scott Fitzgerald, Mitchell finally came across her first touch of almost-normalcy. The Colonial house in which she bathed, dined, and slept after her cross-country flight seemed timid by Fitzgerald's opulent standards, and its pale green palette fit in with the other earthen tones on the more suburban parts of the city's edges—a complete contrast from the bold colors in California and even the livelier hues of her hometown.

Despite her exhaustion—"jet lag," as the stewardess had reminded her—Mitchell woke at a reasonable hour the following morning and changed into her spare outfit. After an hour-long, hair-perfecting session and a quick bite, she headed outside to find on foot the address the Boston chauffeur had passed along.

It was easy to get lost here. No matter where she was (and she was fairly certain she exited Boston and reentered a couple times), the street signs weren't much help. Streets melted one into the other. If it was called one thing on one end, it was named something else entirely on the other. Thankfully, her people skills, as Alcott had pointed out, came in handy, and people rarely turned down her plea for directions in finding the address.

A few people gave her funny looks, however; rather, those who knew about the address did. "Are you sure that's the place you have in mind?" a man dressed in tweed and jeans asked her.

"Positive," she assured him with a bright smile.

"All right, then… But I'm not sure you'll find what you're looking for there."

Mitchell didn't let her smile falter, but she hustled after his directions. His were the best and the last set she needed. But, to her surprise, when she rounded the street corner a block from the train station across from the family diner, she discovered a…parish.

Or was it? She wondered about that as she approached the church, looking for a sign. Not finding one, it clicked into place, why Fitzgerald had left an exact address. And she was supposed to find Hawthorne here?

"Hello?" she called into the small courtyard.

No response.

Mitchell set foot on the holy ground, keeping her eyes peeled as she moved towards the church's front doors. However, the doors were locked. How odd.

Great. Just great. Forget a bonus. She'd be lucky if she earned anything from this mission. Would she be on the hook for the details of her transport? Oh, for heaven's sake. The reimbursement cost of the plane alone—

"This property is abandoned but privately owned. Leave," a man spoke behind her.

She startled and nearly dropped her parasol's handle. Turning around, she met a very cold, gray gaze, fought an involuntary shiver, and forced a smile. "My bad. I'm looking for someone."

This man—tall, dressed all in black, with silver hair to match his severe eyes—tucked a Bible into the crook of his arms and pushed golden frames up the bridge of his nose. "There is no one here," he said.

"Not counting yourself, of course."

He pursed his lips but didn't come any closer inside the courtyard. Not so long as she stood in front of the locked church.

Mitchell descended the two steps and approached him. "My name is Margaret Mitchell. I'm looking for Nathaniel Hawthorne. Have you seen him?"

He stiffened. Even if his body language hadn't given him away, Fitzgerald and Melville's notes, which she'd read on the flight, had described him well anyway. "What business do you have with him, miss?"

"Mr. Hawthorne, I wanted to speak with you. Do you have a moment?"

"I do not," he said brusquely, walking around her and heading for the back of the church.

Mitchell had been given a mission, though. And damned if she weren't going to see this through…although she ignored the image that popped up in her mind, of the black case hidden in her purse. She wanted to do this _her_ way, not Fitzgerald's. "Please, just give me a minute of your time," she called after him.

Hawthorne ignored her and disappeared around the back of the quaint building.

Of course she pursued him. And it _was_ easier to move with fewer layers, as Alcott had said…though Mitchell missed her usual wardrobe.

She found him sitting on a small stone bench tucked against the back of the building, but he sat very rigidly and…oddly. Oh. He sat up straight but without his back against the building. If it were her, she would rest against it, even with it being a church. How strange.

As he continued to ignore her, Mitchell sighed and took the chance to take in the view. Like much of what she'd glimpsed on her trek here, there was very little green to see, with iron and stone filling in all the gaps. But there were some lovely, detailed angel statues in the back here, their gazes tilted upward, aimed at the cross-tipped steeple behind her and Hawthorne. "It's beautiful here," she said softly.

Hawthorne flinched but said nothing.

"May I sit with you?"

Still nothing.

But, as he didn't object, she sat on the other end of the stone bench. With her ankles crossed and her parasol folded across her lap, Mitchell attempted again. "My name is Margaret Mitchell. I'm…a colleague of two men you met before. Fitzgerald? And Melville?"

Now Hawthorne scowled. "Those two… _devils_ ," he spat.

Mitchell blinked. Devils? _Them_? She supposed, depending on the viewpoint, she could see how Fitzgerald fit that description. But Melville? Not that she knew much of anything about him, but he was definitely one of the kindest people she'd ever met. Barely a week in a California and she'd thought of him like a father and had ever since. "Devils," she repeated.

"Monsters," Hawthorne clarified.

"In what way?"

The sneer he turned on her was cruel—but also brittle. It wasn't just his posture that was odd, but his emotions, as well. "Their powers. They're unnatural."

…ah. Mitchell's smile lessened. It wasn't the first time she'd heard something like this. Ability users were always eyed suspiciously; that'd been another reason she'd signed up with the Guild, to be with like people, since no one else in her family had power like her. "Unnatural," she repeated.

He grumbled, disliking this echo. "Yes. It's—it's _evil_."

"What about you?"

He paled.

"I told you I know them. You had to figure I know about them and about you, too."

But Hawthorne shook his head.

"I'll show you mine, and you show me yours."

His eyes widened, and his hard expression slipped for a second. "You're…one of _them_."

Mitchell sighed and stirred up a playful breeze that ruffled the cape of his habit. When that seemed like coincidence to him, she urged the wind to churn more strongly, and it picked up a longer lock of hair and sliced it—trimming it to be around the same length as the rest of his hair.

" _You're one of them_ ," he stated again, horrified.

No…not horrified. _Guilty_.

"Mr. Hawthorne—or do you prefer 'Minister' or 'Father'?"

"Don't. I'm. I'm not one anymore."

Mitchell quirked an eyebrow and glanced at the Bible which he so tightly clutched. "Maybe, maybe not. But…I'm sure Fitzgerald and Melville mentioned it before. They need your ability—your help," she added hastily. "You could do amazing things."

"I did amazing things before…" He trailed off, abandoning his thought.

"Yes, but—you can still help people."

The hard line of his jaw disagreed.

Not that she fully bought the idea, either. She had yet to do anything for the Guild that could be deemed "helping people," nor did the Guild members _look_ like people who needed help, well-dressed and -groomed and -fed, of course. But, still…! "Why don't you just tell me what it is you do? We don't have to talk about Fitzgerald. Just—just tell me about Nathaniel Hawthorne. And I can tell you about Margaret Mitchell."

Ah, no. The wrong things to say. If anything, he turned into one of those angel statues out back here—beautiful and made of nothing but stone. He was done interacting with her.

Her stomach grumbled, and she used the opportunity to seize a break. "Well, I know that you must be human like me, and surely you'll get hungry, too." Mitchell stood and opened her parasol as she stepped out from under the church roof's shadow, facing Hawthorne. "I saw a little café across the street. I'll go there now for an early lunch. You are more than welcome to join me." Briefly, the scenario where she dropped one of those lipstick-hidden pills in his tea played in her mind, and she felt ashamed and exasperated all at once. She wasn't ready to drag this man back with her without trying to understand why he had such a visceral aversion to Fitzgerald and Melville.

She waited for anything, anything at all. But Hawthorne remained a statue.

"All right, then, Mr. Hawthorne." Mitchell tipped her head to him and left, tempted to look back and see if the new statue would dare even to blink.

\- ^-^3

She didn't have the slim dossier on her. No, that was back at the Colonial with her overnight things. But Mitchell thought she remembered enough of it.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, age twenty-six—making him seven years older than her. Ability: projectiles, offensive. Occupation: priest.

Well, according to Hawthorne himself, that last fact was incorrect.

Mitchell stirred the straw in her tea—a sweet delight she'd never had, this fancy thing called boba (she'd have to ask if the kitchen could stock it when she returned to headquarters)—and finished her sandwich, never tearing her eyes from the church across the street even once. She'd chosen this café precisely because she could watch through the window. At least Hawthorne hadn't left in her absence.

"If you're doing a tour of churches, you can scratch that one off your list."

Mitchell glimpsed at the woman in an elderly couple to her left. "Sorry?"

The woman's bob reminded her of Alcott's, except it was snow white. The elder woman pointed to Hawthorne's church. "That one. It's been closed for two months. And you seem like a tourist, honey, so I thought I'd save you the time. There's a magnificent orthodox church over on—"

"Excuse me, but could you tell me more about this church?" Mitchell interrupted.

The husband shook his head. "There's nothing much to tell. A neighbor of ours up the road used to attend service there. Liked the priest. Young fella but a real God-fearing man. Then, one day—bam! Doors closed, locked ever since. So suddenly. Everyone was taken by surprise."

Mitchell wiped her mouth with her napkin. That story, along with Fitzgerald's thin pack of notes… She nodded her thanks to them and cleaned up her meal. Then she hurried back across the street, ignoring the couple's remarks about visiting the orthodox church instead.

She'd taken her time, spending an hour at the café. But Hawthorne was exactly where she'd left him. He didn't appear to have moved even an inch.

"Hello, Mr. Hawthorne," she said gently, taking her seat on the opposite end of the bench.

Hawthorne stared at nothing and pursed his lips.

"Mind if I ask…your ability—it developed recently, didn't it?"

The slight widening of his eyes, coupled with the tiny crease forming between his eyebrows—guilt, yet again.

"I understand, you know. I only discovered Gone with the Wind—ah, the fancy name I call it…silly, isn't it?—but I only discovered I had it shortly after my sixteenth birthday. Fitzgerald…well, he's had his since his first understanding of money. Melville and Alcott—I'm not sure. Only Fitzgerald told me. He tells us when we first join, but he assures me that he's seen late-bloomers before, too.

But I get it. It's too much of a shock to handle so suddenly, and on your own. So…please. Will you talk to me about it?"

Hawthorne stood abruptly, making Mitchell believe he would walk away. But, in reality, he placed his Bible on the bench and withdrew from beneath his cape a beautiful, ornate cross—and sliced his palm open with it.

Mitchell yelped but swallowed a scream for help when he began to recite the Our Father.

His blood— _his blood!_ —took on the form of letters…the same letters of the very same prayer he now spoke. And the letters morphed, turned into… _bullets_. Or, no, not bullets, but shrapnel…projectiles, as the dossier had observed. And Hawthorne controlled them, having them hover or ordering them to fly at high speed in the blink of an eye. He could even congeal them into a larger object, which he flung at the ground. It cleaved a chunk of dirt clear out.

She'd seen some scary things. But this…was something else altogether.

Hawthorne faced her at last, and the shame was clear on his fair features, along with bitterness. "You have every right to be scared. This power—it's the devil's doing."

At that, it was easy to swallow her fear, and Mitchell hopped to her feet. " _No_ , it's _not_!"

"Of course it is—"

She couldn't help it. She slapped him. When he blinked at her, she continued. "Don't you _dare_ say that! You're no more a devil than me, Fitzgerald, Melville, Alcott—any ability user! This power _is not evil_!"

"Then how else do you explain such an abnormality? My _blood_ —"

"So what? Each ability is different! My 'unnatural' gift is power over an aspect of nature, Hawthorne. I'd be willing to bet Fitzgerald's best suit that we could find others like us with power over the oceans, trees, fire, animals—maybe even gravity as we know it."

Hawthorne deflated in the face of her sudden fury, and he rubbed his cheek where she'd hit him. "…perhaps those…abilities…have two sides to them. To defend as well as to attack."

"Most of the time, all I do is destroy things."

"You've never cushioned a fall before?"

Mitchell chuckled. "Actually, that _was_ how I discovered my ability. I climbed the tree in our backyard, and the branch broke after I encouraged a wind to batter it—but the wind saved me, too."

"There's nothing good about blood bullets, Miss Mitchell."

She bit her lower lip and chewed on it, thinking. He'd opened up this much—but one wrong idea and she'd probably lose him for good. Mitchell scanned the church's grounds, and her eyes rested on the cleaved earth. She went and kneeled by it, pressing her palm into it. "Maybe—maybe there is."

He was quiet once more, but his furrowed brow and grimace was him prompting her.

"Maybe if you can gather your blood into something that big, it could protect you and others."

"A shield."

"Yes." Her eyes lit up. Had she succeeded? This was her first major mission for the Guild—and what a win it was—

"I doubt it. I've never done anything like that before."

Mitchell harrumphed. "Don't give up before you've even tried," she groused, standing up and walking back to him.

Hawthorne twisted his lips around. It wasn't exactly a frown, but he clearly disagreed with her—her personality, her looks, her ability, maybe everything about her. "And if I can't do it?"

She groaned. "I'll still believe you will, someday."

His shoulders went slack, and he seemed far less intimidating now. Almost small. He grew smaller when he sat once more on the bench, thumbing the cross on his Bible's cover. "You seem so sure of yourself, Miss Mitchell."

"Because I'm not an evil person, and neither are you."

He peered at her above the rims of his glasses.

"I've heard around. A well-liked priest suddenly closes his doors. I bet that priest thought he'd become the devil himself and wanted to save others from the same fate, yes?"

A tinge of warmth colored his cheeks. How cute. He was as black-and-white as his clothes.

Mitchell licked her lips and chuckled to herself, amused. "Oh, Hawthorne… You're no devil. You'll make that shield, become a shield, with practice." She put her hands on her hips, feeling immensely proud. "And, until then, I can protect you."

He snorted.

"What? You doubt me?"

Hawthorne opened and closed his mouth, wisely saying nothing. But he'd softened. He was still a statue—but maybe he was marble instead of stone now.

"So…I won't ask you to join the Guild and work for Fitzgerald." She held up a hand to keep him from interrupting when he gaped at her. Mitchell smiled. "I'm asking you to come be with your kind. Learn how to use your power. Hone your skills. Skills that can save. I can't think God would give you such an ability without intending for you to make the best of it, to do good with it."

There it was. Her final plea, and the best one she had to offer. …and yet he neither denied nor accepted it.

Sighing, she dug out a mini paper tablet she'd grabbed on the plane and a pen and wrote down the address for the hangar. "If you'd like to continue your mission with other good people, come here by ten tonight. I'm due back, with or without you." Technically a lie. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Hawthorne." Honestly the truth.

Mitchell left Hawthorne and his abandoned church, taking her time and getting lost twice on the way back to Fitzgerald's property. The staff there didn't ask her how things went, if they even knew the details of her mission, and she didn't share. She went out in search of souvenirs since the more she talked of the Guild as friends, the more they felt like her kin, and who ever heard of going home empty-handed?

That night, when she boarded the plane alone, she tucked right in to the comfiest seat on the plane, rubbed the pad of her thumb across her painted nails, and wished to return to her new life as soon as possible.

\- ^-^3

"How was your trip, Margaret?" Alcott asked as Mitchell climbed the stairs to headquarters the following morning.

Mitchell passed her a bag with a ribbon tied on the handles. "Interesting. I'm not sure I mix with the Boston climate, but I found Newbury Street, so I faired fine. I got you an assortment of hair ribbons and matching shawls, Louisa," she elaborated when the other woman stared at the gift bag with pink cheeks.

"Ah! But—! You didn't—!"

Mitchell laughed. Alcott was so adorable when flustered. "Let a friend spoil her friend, Louisa," she scolded.

The two went inside, and Mitchell made a beeline for her room upstairs when Alcott caught her arm. "Actually, Margaret, Mr. Fitzgerald wanted to speak with you right away."

"But I _just_ got back…!"

Alcott gave her a sympathetic look. "And the pilot and stewardess let you sleep on the plane overnight. It should be quick, don't worry."

Mitchell sighed, but she took comfort in Alcott trotting alongside her as they went to Fitzgerald's study.

The door stood open, and Mitchell spied both Melville and Fitzgerald. The latter waved, and Melville gave her a one-armed hug once she was within reach; he truly was fatherly.

"Tell me all about Boston," Fitzgerald opened without so much as a "hello."

Mitchell slouched where she stood and gave as concise and short a report as she could manage since Fitzgerald liked to hear himself talk most. At the end, she gripped handfuls of her skirt and admitted, "I…failed. I'm sorry."

Melville and Alcott exchanged a look, but Fitzgerald shrugged it off. "I still have plans for pairing everyone up, Miss Mitchell."

She bit back her gripe. "Still? But—the three of you—"

"Yes, no, we're out of the running, I'm sad to say."

"Then—Twain?" She pulled a face.

Fitzgerald laughed. Handsome bastard's laugh lines always disappeared once he calmed down. "Miss Mitchell, tell me—do you think you could've worked with Hawthorne?"

That caught her by surprise. She thought on it. "Perhaps… He's as stubborn as they come. And, leading a church, I think it might've been hard for him to depend on others since he's used to being depended _on_. But…" Mitchell could easily imagine his shield providing her adequate cover while she used her ability, and she wondered what it might be like to talk with him after they'd gotten used to each other. After all, he hadn't opened up to Fitzgerald or Melville, but something had convinced him she was all right to confess his burdens to… "I could've," she said with finality, "and I would've made him come around."

Fitzgerald's blue eyes flashed, and suddenly she didn't feel so confident. "Yes, you had such means at your disposal."

Oh, hell. Couldn't she just return the case to him and be done with this?

"Luckily, your first avenue bore fruit."

"I— What?"

The door creaked behind her, and Hawthorne emerged from its shadow as it swung nearly shut. "Hello, Miss Mitchell."

She gawked at him. " _How_ —"

"Hawthorne's made it very clear that he came only because you were so convincing, Mitchell," Fitzgerald continued, waving off the anger that flitted across Hawthorne's face at being exposed. "Since this worked out better than I expected, and based on your glowing recommendation, you two are officially partners." He clapped his hands together and turned to Alcott. "Fantastic! How about we move on to the next ones on the list, Miss Alcott? That boy with the family that breeds like rabbits and that dark, odd fellow whose rumors reached all the way to Agatha…"

Hawthorne didn't wait to be dismissed, and Melville shook his head, encouraging Mitchell to go after him and leave the nonsense in the study behind them.

"I knew there'd be far too much luxury here," Hawthorne thought aloud as they landed in the main living room, the one right off the vestibule. He picked at the cashmere sofa in front of them.

" _How did you make it here_?!" she shrieked in disbelief.

"The plane," he replied calmly. "You told me to be there by ten. I was there before then."

"But I never saw you on the plane!"

"I happened to be in the bathroom when you boarded. You went right to sleep and slept through the whole flight." He sniffed. "I didn't think ladies snored."

Her face burned in embarrassment. "And men of God don't?! I take it back. I can't work with you. I take back all the nice things I just said about you in the study.

"Remind me which parts were nice."

"I take it all back!" she huffed.

Finally, his haughtiness cooled, and a frown threatened to yank down the corners of his mouth. "…everything?"

Oh. Well, of course not what she'd said in Boston. "…only what was said in the study," she assured him.

For a brief moment, relief showed in his eyes, which were warmer than she recalled from yesterday. Then Hawthorne squared his shoulders and quirked an eyebrow. "What did Fitzgerald mean when he said you had 'means at your disposal'?"

Oh, _hell_! "Um, nothing. He just. I mean. Alcott can tell you. I'm a—a very persuasive person. I grew up around people, I know people, I'm a people person," she babbled with forced laughter. She jabbed her fingers towards the staircase. "I'm sure someone's told you by now, but our rooms are upstairs, so I'm going to get changed and. Um. See you at breakfast?"

"I already ate. I'll be outside, meditating on Proverbs."

"See you for ability practice later, then?"

He gave her a doubtful look.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Hawthorne! I wouldn't have suggested you'd get better without understanding you'd need a sparring partner to improve. So I'll take it upon myself."

He tsked. "Taking the Lord's name in vain—how abhorrent. Perhaps I should've remained in Boston…"

Mitchell scoffed and climbed the stairs anyway. "Newsflash, Hawthorne: Ladies aren't perfect, but neither are men of God." Happy that she wasn't met with a rebuttal, Mitchell paused on the staircase and peeked over her shoulder. Hawthorne wasn't so bad to look at when he didn't open his mouth…

Perhaps the same thought about her had occurred to him, because she caught him staring, too. He broke the gaze first, and she hurried to her room.

Perhaps their abilities weren't the only God-given things in their lives….

\- ^-^3

 **:3c SO. Good things happen when I revisit year-old ideas to finish them. XD This fic had been a page-and-a-half long for over a year until I returned to it tonight and churned out about another twenty pages. All I knew was that I wanted this story to be Hawmitch's first encounter, but then? It turned into how Hawthorne joined the Guild? XD I even fleshed out a bit of Mitchell's backstory, too (since all we know in canon is that her fam's in debt and she's trying to work it off and repair their reputation). But. GAH. Who knows fully how abilities develop and work? So…I just made up some things. XD But, esp since I attended different Christian schools as a kid, one that told me magic was evil and the other that was like "nah, man, 's all cool," I used that as inspiration for Hawthorne's and Mitchell's respective viewpoints regarding abilities. Poor boy needs a hug, tbh… But I think Mitchell did an excellent job of convincing him. And ofc it doesn't hurt that, even in the basest sense, they find each other interesting/appealing. XD And who loves the mention of Agatha and hints of Steinbeck and Lovecraft at the end there? There's even a nod to Chuuya, *lol*. ;D (Also, I love Boston, Mitchell's crazy, but we both agree that Newbury Street is irresistible—in my case, even if you're only window-shopping. XDDD) Oh, and the detail about Mitchell and nail polish was a headcanon I continued over from "Useless Little Things" (that's a cute Hawmitch, too, y'know).**

 **Thanks for reading, and please review! Check out my other [** _ **BSD**_ **] fics if you liked this!**

 **-mew-tsubaki :3c**


End file.
